comfortable canonical houses, in green trim gardens, spread out like a
map at my feet. We looked down on to the tops of tall elm-trees, and
saw the rooks walking and sitting on the grey-splashed platforms of
twigs, that swayed horribly in the breeze. It was pleasant to see, as
I did, the tiny figure of my reverend host walking, a dot of black, in
his garden beneath, reading in a book. The long grey-leaded roof ran
broad and straight, a hundred feet below. One felt for a moment as a
God might feel, looking on a corner of his created world, and seeing
that it was good. One seemed to have surmounted the earth, and to
watch the little creeping orbits of men with a benevolent compassion,
perceiving how strait they were. The large air hissed briskly in the
pinnacles, and roared through the belfry windows beneath. I cannot
describe the eager exhilaration which filled me; but I guessed that the
impulse which bids men fling themselves from such heights is not a
morbid prepossession, not a physical dizziness, but an intemperate and
overwhelming joy. It seems at such a moment so easy to float and swim
through the viewless air, as if one would be borne up on the wings of
angels.
But, alas! the hour warned us to return. On our way down we disturbed
a peevish jackdaw from her nest; she had dragged up to that intolerable
height a pile of boughs that would have made a dozen nests; she had
interwoven for the cup to hold her eggs a number of strips of purloined
canvas. There lay the three speckled eggs, the hope of the race, while
the chiding mother stood on a pinnacle hard by, waiting for the
intruder to begone.
A strange sense of humiliation and smallness came upon me as we emerged
at last into the nave; the people that had seemed so small and
insignificant, were, alas! as big and as important as myself; I felt as
an exile from the porches of heaven, a fallen spirit.
XXVIII
Prayer
I am often baffled when I try to think what prayer is; if our thoughts
do indeed lie open before the eyes of the Father, like a little clear
globe of water which a man may hold in his hand--and I am sure they
do--it certainly seems hardly worth while to put those desires into
words. Many good Christians seem to me to conceive of prayers partly
as a kind of tribute they are bound to pay, and partly as requests that
are almost certain to be refused. With such people religion, then,
means the effort which they make to trust a Father who hears prayers,
and very seldom answers them. But this does not seem to be a very
reasonable attitude.
I confess that liturgical prayer does not very much appeal to me. It
does not seem to me to correspond to any particular need in my mind.
It seems to me to sacrifice almost all the things that I mean by
prayer--the sustained intention of soul, the laying of one's own
problems before the Father, the expression of one's hopes for others,
the desire that the sorrows of the world should be lightened. Of
course, a liturgy touches these thoughts at many points; but the
exercise of one's own liberty of aspiration and wonder, the pursuing of
a train of thought, the quiet dwelling upon mysteries, are all lost if
one has to stumble and run in a prescribed track. To follow a service
with uplifted attention requires more mental agility than I possess;
point after point is raised, and yet, if one pauses to meditate, to
wonder, to aspire, one is lost, and misses the thread of the service.
I suppose that there is or ought to be something in the united act of
intercession. But I dislike all public meetings, and think them a
waste of time. I should make an exception in favour of the Sacrament,
but the rapid disappearance of the majority of a congregation before
the solemn act seems to me to destroy the sense of unity with singular
rapidity. As to the old theory that God requires of his followers that
they should unite at intervals in presenting him with a certain amount
of complimentary effusion, I cannot even approach the idea. The
holiest, simplest, most benevolent being of whom I can conceive would
be inexpressibly pained and distressed by such an intention on the part
of the objects of his care; and to conceive of God as greedy of
recognition seems to me to be one of the conceptions which insult the
dignity of the soul.
I have heard lately one or two mediaeval stories which illustrate what
I mean. There is a story of a pious monk, who, worn out by long
vigils, fell asleep, as he was saying his prayers before a crucifix.
He was awakened by a buffet on the head, and heard a stern voice
saying, "Is this an oratory or a dormitory?" I cannot conceive of any
story more grotesquely human than the above, or more out of keeping
with one's best thoughts about God. Again, there is a story which is
told, I think, of one of the first monasteries of the Benedictine
order. One of the monks was a lay brother, who had many little menial
tasks to fulfil; he was a well-meaning man, but extremely forgetful,
and he was often forced to retire from some service in which he was
taking part, because he had forgotten to put the vegetables on to boil,
or omitted other duties which would lead to the discomfort of the
brethren. Another monk, who was fond of more secular occupations, such
as wood-carving and garden-work, and not at all attached to habits of
prayer, seeing this, thought that he would do the same; and he too used
to slip away from a service, in order to return to the business that he
loved better. The Prior of the monastery, an anxious, humble man, was
at a loss how to act; so he called in a very holy hermit, who lived in
a cell hard by, that he might have the benefit of his advice. The
hermit came and attended an Office. Presently the lay brother rose
from his knees and slipped out. The hermit looked up, followed him
with his eyes, and appeared to be greatly moved. But he took no
action, and only addressed himself more assiduously to his prayers.
Shortly after, the other brother rose and went out. The hermit looked
up, and seeing him go, rose too, and followed him to the door, where he
fetched him a great blow upon the head that nearly brought him to the
ground. Thereupon the stricken man went humbly back to his place and
addressed himself to his prayers; and the hermit did the same.
The Office was soon over, and the hermit went to the Prior's room to
talk the matter over. The hermit said: "I bore in my mind what you
told me, dear Father, and when I saw one of the brethren rise from his
prayers, I asked God to show me what I should do; but I saw a wonderful
thing; there was a shining figure with our brother, his hand upon the
other's sleeve; and this fair comrade, I have no doubt, was an angel of
God, that led the brother forth, that he might be about his Father's
business. So I prayed the more earnestly. But when our other brother
rose, I looked up; and I saw that he had been plucked by the sleeve by
a little naked, comely boy, very swarthy of hue, that I saw had no
business among our holy prayers; he wore a mocking smile on his face,
as though he prevailed in evil. So I rose and followed; and just as
they came to the door, I aimed a shrewd blow, for it was told me what
to do, at the boy, and struck him on the head, so that he fell to the
ground, and presently went to his own place; and then our brother came
back to his prayers."
The Prior mused a little over this wonder, and then he said, smiling:
"It seemed to me that it was our brother that was smitten." "Very
like," said the hermit, "for the two were close together, and I think
the boy was whispering in the brother's ear; but give God the glory;
for the dear brother will not offend again."
There is an abundance of truth in this wholesome ancient tale; but I
will not draw the morals out here. All I will say is that the old
theory of prayer, simple and childlike as it is, seems to have a
curious vitality even nowadays. It presupposes that the act of prayer
is in itself pleasing to God; and that is what I am not satisfied of.
That theory seems to prevail even more strongly in the Roman Church of
to-day than in our own. The Roman priest is not a man occupied
primarily with pastoral duties; his business is the business of prayer.
To neglect his daily offices is a mortal sin, and when he has said
them, his priestly duty is at an end. This does not seem to me to bear
any relation to the theory of prayer as enunciated in the Gospel.
There the practice of constant and secret prayer, of a direct and
informal kind, is enjoined upon all followers of Christ; but Our Lord
seems to be very hard upon the lengthy and public prayers of the
Pharisees, and indeed against all formality in the matter at all. The
only united service that he enjoined upon his followers was the
Sacrament of the common meal; and I confess that the saying of formal
liturgies in an ornate building seems to me to be a practice which has
drifted very far away from the simplicity of individual religion which
Christ appears to have aimed at.
My own feeling about prayer is that it should not be relegated to
certain seasons, or attended by certain postures, or even couched in
definite language; it should rather be a constant uplifting of the
heart, a stretching out of the hands to God. I do not think we should
ask for definite things that we desire; I am sure that our definite
desires, our fears, our plans, our schemes, the hope that visits one a
hundred times a day, our cravings for wealth or success or influence,
are as easily read by God, as a man can discern the tiny atoms and
filaments that swim in his crystal globe. But I think we may ask to be
led, to be guided, to be helped; we may put our anxious little
decisions before God; we may ask for strength to fulfil hard duties; we
may put our desires for others' happiness, our hopes for our country,
our compassion for sorrowing or afflicted persons, our horror of
cruelty and tyranny before him; and here I believe lies the force of
prayer; that by practising this sense of aspiration in his presence, we
gain a strength to do our own part. If we abstain from prayer, if we
limit our prayers to our own small desires, we grow, I know, petty and
self-absorbed and feeble. We can leave the fulfilment of our concrete
aims to God; but we ought to be always stretching out our hands and
opening our hearts to the high and gracious mysteries that lie all
about us.
A friend of mine told me that a little Russian peasant, whom he had
visited often in a military hospital, told him, at their last
interview, that he would tell him a prayer that was always effective,
and had never failed of being answered. "But you must not use it," he
said, "unless you are in a great difficulty, and there seems no way
out." The prayer which he then repeated was this: "Lord, remember King
David, and all his grace."
I have never tested the efficacy of this prayer, but I have a thousand
times tested the efficacy of sudden prayer in moments of difficulty,
when confronted with a little temptation, when overwhelmed with
irritation, before an anxious interview, before writing a difficult
passage. How often has the temptation floated away, the irritation
mastered itself, the right word been said, the right sentence written!
To do all we are capable of, and then to commit the matter to the hand
of the Father, that is the best that we can do.
Of course, I am well aware that there are many who find this kind of
help in liturgical prayer; and I am thankful that it is so. But for
myself, I can only say that as long as I pursued the customary path,
and confined myself to fixed moments of prayer, I gained very little
benefit. I do not forego the practice of liturgical attendance even
now; for a solemn service, with all the majesty of an old and beautiful
building full of countless associations, with all the resources of
musical sound and ceremonial movement, does uplift and rejoice the
soul. And even with simpler services, there is often something vaguely
sustaining and tranquillising in the act. But the deeper secret lies
in the fact that prayer is an attitude of soul, and not a ceremony;
that it is an individual mystery, and not a piece of venerable pomp. I
would have every one adopt his own method in the matter. I would not
for an instant discourage those who find that liturgical usage uplifts
them; but neither would I have those to be discouraged who find that it
has no meaning for them. The secret lies in the fact that our aim
should be a relation with the Father, a frank and reverent confidence,
a humble waiting upon God. That the Father loves all his children with
an equal love I doubt not. But he is nearest to those who turn to him
at every moment, and speak to him with a quiet trustfulness. He alone
knows why he has set us in the middle of such a bewildering world,
where joy and sorrow, darkness and light, are so strangely
intermingled; and all that we can do is to follow wisely and patiently
such clues as he gives us, into the cloudy darkness in which he seems
to dwell.
XXIX
The Death-bed of Jacob
I heard read the other morning, in a quiet house-chapel, a chapter
which has always seemed to me one of the most perfectly beautiful
things in the Bible. And as it was read, I felt, what is always a test
of the highest kind of beauty, that I had never known before how
perfect it was. It was the 48th chapter of Genesis, the blessing of
Ephraim and Manasses. Jacob, feeble and spent, is lying in the quiet,
tranquil passiveness of old age, with bygone things passing like dreams
before the inner eye of the spirit--in that mood, I think, when one
hardly knows where the imagined begins or the real ends. He is told
that his son Joseph is coming, and he strengthens himself for an
effort. Joseph enters, and, in a strain of high solemnity, Jacob
speaks of the promise made long before on the stone-strewn hills of
Bethel, and its fulfilment; but even so he seems to wander in his
thought, the recollection of his Rachel comes over him, and he cannot
forbear to speak of her: "_And as for me, when I came from Padan,
Rachel died by me in the land of Canaan, in the way, and when yet there
was but a little way to come unto Ephrath; and I buried her there in
the way of Ephrath; the same is Bethlehem._"
Could there be anything more human, more tender than that? The memory
of the sad day of loss and mourning, and then the gentle, aged
precision about names and places, the details that add nothing, and yet
are so natural, so sweet an echo of the old tale, the symbols of the
story, that stand for so much and mean so little,--"_the same is
Bethlehem_." Who has not heard an old man thus tracing out the
particulars of some remote recollected incident, dwelling for the
hundredth time on the unimportant detail, the side-issue, so needlessly
anxious to avoid confusion, so bent on useless accuracy.
Then, as he wanders thus, he becomes aware of the two boys, standing in
wonder and awe beside him; and even so he cannot at once piece together
the facts, but asks, with a sudden curiosity, "_Who are these?_" Then
it is explained very gently by the dear son whom he had lost, and who
stands for a parable of tranquil wisdom and loyal love. The old man
kisses and embraces the boys, and with a full heart says, "_I had not
thought to see thy face; and lo, God hath showed me also thy seed._"
And at this Joseph can bear it no more, puts the boys forward, who seem
to be clinging shyly to him, and bows himself down with his face to the
earth, in a passion of grief and awe.
And then the old man will not bless them as intended, but gives the
richer blessing to the younger; with those words which haunt the memory
and sink into the heart: "_The angel which redeemed me from all evil,
bless the lads._" And Joseph is moved by what he thinks to be a
mistake, and would correct it, so as to give the larger blessing to his
firstborn. But Jacob refuses. "_I know it, my son, I know it ... he
also shall be great, but truly his younger brother shall be greater
than he._"
And so he adds a further blessing; and even then, at that deep moment,
the old man cannot refrain from one flash of pride in his old prowess,
and speaks, in his closing words, of the inheritance he won from the
Amorite with his sword and bow; and this is all the more human because
there is no trace in the records of his ever having done anything of
the kind. He seems to have been always a man of peace. And so the
sweet story remains human to the very end. I care very little what the
critics may have to say on the matter. They may call it legendary if
they will, they may say that it is the work of an Ephraimite scribe,
bent on consecrating the Ephraimite supremacy by the aid of tradition.
But the incident appears to me to be of a reality, a force, a
tenderness, that is above historical criticism. Whatever else may be
true, there is a breathing reality in the picture of the old weak
patriarch making his last conscious effort; Joseph, that wise and
prudent servant, whose activities have never clouded his clear natural
affections; the boys, the mute and awed actors in the scene, not made
to utter any precocious phrases, and yet centring the tenderness of
hope and joy upon themselves. If it is art, it is the perfection of
art, which touches the very heart-strings into a passion of sweetness
and wonder.
Compare this ancient story with other achievements of the human mind
and soul: with Homer, with Virgil, with Shakespeare. I think they pale
beside it, because with no sense of effort or construction, with all
the homely air of a simple record, the perfectly natural, the perfectly
pathetic, the perfectly beautiful, is here achieved. There is no
painting of effects, no dwelling on accessories, no consciousness of
beauty; and yet the heart is fed, the imagination touched, the spirit
satisfied. For here one has set foot in the very shrine of truth and
beauty, and the wise hand that wrote it has just opened the door of the
heart, and stands back, claiming no reward, desiring no praise.
XXX
By the Sea of Galilee
I have often thought that the last chapter of St John's Gospel is one
of the most bewildering and enchanting pieces of literature I know. I
suppose Robert Browning must have thought so, because he makes the
reading of it, in that odd rich poem, _Bishop Blougram's Apology_, the
sign, together with testing a plough, of a man's conversion, from the
unreal life of talk and words, to the realities of life; though I have
never divined why he used this particular chapter as a symbol; and
indeed I hope no one will ever make it clear to me, though I daresay
the connection is plain enough.
It is bewildering, because it is a postscript, added, with a singular
artlessness, after the Gospel has come to a full close. Perhaps St
John did not even write it, though the pretty childlike conclusion
about the world itself not being able to contain the books that might
be written about Christ has always seemed to me to be in his spirit,
the words of a very simple-minded and aged man. It is enchanting,
because it contains two of the most beautiful episodes in the whole of
the Gospel History, the charge to St Peter to feed the lambs and sheep
of the fold, where one of the most delicate nuances of language is lost
in the English translation, and the appearance of Jesus beside the sea
of Galilee. I must not here discuss the story of the charge to St
Peter, though I once heard it read, with exquisite pathos, when an
archbishop of Canterbury was being enthroned with all the pomp and
circumstance of ecclesiastical ceremony, in such a way that it brought
out, by a flash of revelation, the true spirit of the scene we were
attending; we were simple Christians, it seemed, assembled only to set
a shepherd over a fold, that he might lead a flock in green pastures
and by waters of comfort.
But a man must not tell two tales at once, or he loses the savour of
both. Let us take the other story.
The dreadful incidents of the Passion are over; the shame, the horror,
the humiliation, the disappointment. The hearts of the Apostles must
have been sore indeed at the thought that they had deserted their
friend and Master. Then followed the mysterious incidents of the
Resurrection, about which I will only say that it is plain from the
documents, if they are accepted as a record at all, from the
astonishing change which seems to have passed over the Apostles,
converting their timid faithfulness into a tranquil boldness, that
they, at all events, believed that some incredibly momentous thing had
happened, and that their Master was among them again, returning through
the gates of Death.
They go back, like men wearied of inaction, tired of agitated thought,
to their homely trade. All night the boat sways in the quiet tide, but
they catch nothing. Then, as the morning begins to come in about the
promontories and shores of the lake, they see the figure of one moving
on the bank, who hails them with a familiar heartiness, as a man might
do who had to provide for unexpected guests, and had nothing to give
them to eat. I fancy, I know not whether rightly, that they see in him
a purchaser, and answer sullenly that they have nothing to sell. Then
follows a direction, which they obey, to cast the net on the right side
of the boat. Perhaps they thought the stranger--for it is clear that
as yet they had no suspicion of his identity--had seen some sign of a
moving shoal which had escaped them. They secure a great haul of fish.
Then John has an inkling of the truth; and I know no words which thrill
me more strangely than the simple expression that bursts from his lips:
_It is the Lord!_ With characteristic impetuosity Peter leaps into the
water, and wades or swims ashore.
And then comes another of the surprising touches of the story. As a
mother might tenderly provide a meal for her husband and sons who have
been out all night, they find that their visitant has made and lit a
little fire, and is broiling fish, how obtained one knows not; then the
haul is dragged ashore, the big shoal leaping in the net; and then
follows the simple invitation and the distribution of the food. It
seems as though that memorable meal, by the shore of the lake, with the
fresh brightness of the morning breaking all about them, must have been
partaken of in silence; one can almost hear the soft crackling of the
fire, and the waves breaking on the shingle. They dared not ask him
who he was: they knew; and yet, considering that they had only parted
from him a few days before, the narrative implies that some mysterious
change must have passed over him. Perhaps they were wondering, as we
may wonder, how he was spending those days. He was seen only in sudden
and unexpected glimpses; where was he living, what was he doing through
those long nights and days in which they saw him not? I can only say
that for me a deep mystery broods over the record. The glimpses of
him, and even more his absences, seem to me to transcend the powers of
human invention. That these men lived, that they believed they saw the
Lord, seems to me the only possible explanation, though I admit to the
full the baffling mystery of it all.
And then the scene closes with absolute suddenness; there is no attempt
to describe, to amplify, to analyse. There follows the charge to
Peter, the strange prophecy of his death, and the still stranger
repression of curiosity as to what should be the fate of St John.
But the whole incident, coming to us as it does out of the hidden
ancient world, defying investigation, provoking the deepest wonder,
remains as faint and sweet as the incense of the morning, as the cool
breeze that played about the weary brows of the sleepless fishermen,
and stirred the long ripple of the clear lake.
XXXI
The Apocalypse